


The Fallen Leaves of Nemezir

by OverWroughtThought



Category: Acquisitions Inc., Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), The "C" Team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverWroughtThought/pseuds/OverWroughtThought
Summary: When the city of Nemezir fell, their lives were scattered.  This is a collection of stories for some who survived.





	1. Sacred Falsehoods

"You're a liar!  Stop lying!"  The mayor's son, Advan, shoved her hard and she stumbled against the barn wall.  
  
"It's not a lie!  It was real!" Lia's voice was shrill with fear and fury in equal measure.  Her small hands were shaking.  
  
Bren, one of Advan's many hangers-on, sneered at her.  "My uncle's cousin's been as far as Red Larch, an' he says there in't nuthin' past there but trees, trees, 'n' more trees than ever.  He says there's no such thing as a town called Nemezir."  
  
"I told you, that's because -- "  
  
"We've heard that stupid story a million times," Advan interrupted.  "Nobody cares about it any more.  It's boring."  
  
" _You're_ boring," Lia snapped.  "It _happened_.  A giant tree _ate_ my town and it would have gotten me too, but a dragonborn man saved me."  
  
They both looked skeptical and thoroughly unimpressed.  Advan sighed.  Bren rolled his eyes.  
  
"He did.  HE DID!" She shouted at them.  She pointed at the tallest structure in sight, the convent's bell tower.  "He grabbed me and he jumped over a wall that high!"  
  
Bren snorted.  "Dragonborn can't jump that high."  
  
"They can!"  
  
"Nuh uh.  Torel's mum knows one, and she says they can't jump higher 'n most folk."  
  
"Well…" She could feel herself deflating.  The memories of that day remained jumbled and frightening.  Could she have been mistaken?  "Well…If it wasn't a dragonborn…maybe it was…maybe it was…"  
  
"What?" Advan demanded.  
  
"Maybe it was a god," she whispered.  
  
They both burst out laughing.  
  
"I take it back!" Advan gasped between peals of mirth.  "You're not a liar.  You're just crazy!"  Bren laughed so hard at that, he fell over.  Lia's eyes stung with unshed tears.  Her cheeks burned.  She was so angry she couldn't speak.  Words crowded her throat, but it closed on them.  She whirled and stomped away, which only made them louder.  They hooted at her as she left, but she grit her teeth, swearing she wouldn't cry, she wouldn't give them the satisfaction.  She hiccuped and fell into a run as hot tears started down her cheeks, not wanting them to see.  
  
Lia hid in her special place, a quiet spot by the creek under the bridge.  The other kids thought a troll lived there, but she had never seen one.  Besides, she wasn't afraid of trolls.  It hadn't been trolls that had killed her family and everyone else she knew in Nemezir.  She looked out from the cool shadow of the bridge at the woods beyond the valley, and shivered.  Lia picked up a stick and distracted herself by drawing pictures in the mud.  She tried to remember the dragonborn man who had saved her.    
  
She didn't know why he'd chosen her, of all people.  She wasn't especially strong, or smart, or even especially good.  She'd gotten in trouble all the time, and momma had told her that one day the city rats were going to nibble her toes off for being naughty if she wasn't careful.  Yet this glowing, mighty person had chosen her, and in a rush of air they'd been flying, soaring over the walls, while all around them buildings burst with roots and sank into the earth.  He had glowed.  Sunlight had glimmered off copper scales and pearly white teeth.  His armor had caught the light like --  
  
His armor.  There'd been something on it…some symbol.  She scrunched her brow in concentration, shoving her stick in the dirt as she tried to recreate the image in her mind.  A line here, a curve there -- no, that wasn't quite right.  She scribbled her first attempt out and tried again in a new patch of mud and sand.  There.  That was it.  She was sure of it.  This symbol meant something, it had to.  She wasn't crazy.  This was the key!  Lia stared at it, fixing it in her mind.  When she was sure she could keep it clear in her memory, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her to the library of the convent that had taken her in.  There was paper there, and she wasn't supposed to use it, but _surely_ they'd understand that this was something _important_!  
  
The Reverend Mother found her there less than an hour later, having spilled only _one_ ink pot on just a _few_ sheets of precious paper, triumphant in rendering the symbol.  The triumph quickly fled in the wake of the Reverend Mother's outrage at Lia "squandering a precious resource with pointless scribblings."  Lia was deposited with the evidence of her crime at the door of Sister Breatris, and told to receive due punishment for her many transgressions, which also included tracking mud all over the library and skipping out on her morning chores to wander in the village with disreputable boys.  
  
Sister Breatris very solemnly promised the Reverend Mother that she would see Lia suitably chastised, and the righteous older woman left in a whirlwind of sanctimonious rage.  Sister Breatris looked Lia over quietly.  Lia chanced a glance upward, just fast enough to catch a fleeting smile.  The young woman knelt down in front of Lia, pointing at the creased and ink-stained papers in her hand. 

"Well," she said, "Just what was worth all this trouble, Miss Lia?" 

Lia shyly held out the paper, pointing at the symbol she had so carefully recreated.  
  
"I wanted to know…if this belonged to a -- I mean, what god this is for," she said.  
  
"Hmm…that sounds quite studious, really.  I think under normal circumstances, the Reverend Mother would even be impressed.  Although perhaps next time, use the slate and chalk.  She _is_ very particular about her paper.  May I?"  She gestured to the drawings, and Lia tentatively handed them over.  Sister Breatris stood, walking over to a small desk.  She opened one of the tomes stacked on top.  Lia climbed up on the chair so she could see as the cleric flipped through the pages.  "It just so happens that I am studying the gods of our world at the moment, and this one…looks…familiar… _.Ah_!"  She tapped a finger on the book's pages.  "Here we are.  Is this what you were looking for?"  
  
Lia could not speak.  Her eyes were fixed on the symbol.  It seemed to shine on the paper as brilliantly as it did in her memory, lit by the rays of the sun.  The only bright light on a day when darkness had swallowed her entire world.  
  
"It was _real_." She whispered to herself, running her fingers along the symbol.  She read the name on the page.  "Vars…Melis"  
  
"A god worshiped primarily by dragonborn," the Sister told her.  Breatris skimmed the page, lips moving silently.  "Seems somewhat esoteric, even for them.  Apparently more common in copper clans?"  The cleric looked at her quizzically.  "Where did you even see this symbol?"  
  
Lia did not answer.  Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the symbol.  She stared at it in a reverie.  Without looking up, she asked, "Can I have this book?"  
  
"No," Breatris said, gently, "But…"  The Sister picked up the discarded and wrinkled papers with the symbol -- _Vars Melis'_ symbol.  Breatris turned them over and smoothed them out.  "I did tell the Reverend Mother that you would be appropriately punished for ruining this paper…"

Lia held her breath nervously, but the Sister's tone was teasing.  There was that tiny flicker of a smile again. 

"I think it only proper that you work on your penmanship.  And since this paper is already ruined, you can use the blank sides to copy everything in this book about this god."    
  
Lia jumped up and down on the chair, nearly toppling off of it in her joy.  "Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!  Sister, this means so much, you don't know --"  
  
The Sister quietly shushed her.  "That's quite all right.  Now, there's quite a bit here, and several very big words, so you better get started.  Be sure to ask me any questions if there is something you don't understand, all right?"  
  
That night, Lia's hands were stained with ink that no amount of scrubbing could fix, and her fingers cramped from so much writing, but she had three sheets of wrinkled paper, plus one from Sister Breatris' own store, full of precious words. Vars Melis was a good god.  The _best_ god.  And Lia swore then that she would be Vars Melis' servant forever.  She would be strong, and smart, and most especially _good_.  She did not know why he had saved her that day, but she knew she'd devote the rest of her life to earning that salvation.  
  
And above all, she would _never_ be a liar.  Not when she finally knew the truth.


	2. Occupational Hazard

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Look, halfling, the only reason I hired you and your wife was you said you could make anything. The customer made an order, so you damn well better fulfill it, or I'll have you both back out on the street!"

The kitchen was deathly quiet. The dishwasher in the corner cast a furtive glance at the scene, suds slowly sliding down still hands. The gruff human owner of the inn loomed over his two newest hires. Both halflings, their clothing was one step from threadbare, hanging loosely on gaunt frames. Despite their rough and ragged appearance, the staff had adjusted to the new arrivals. They were quiet, but friendly enough. Accommodating folks. Eager to please, even if it was with a frantic edge. 

At least, they had been.

The husband of the pair currently stood between the proprietor and his wife. The halfling woman leaned against the kitchen wall, hand clutched at her chest, her face pale. The dishwasher met her eyes and hurriedly looked away. Her expression was harrowed, and the dishwasher did not have it in him to meet her gaze for long.

The insubordinate halfling quivered with restrained emotion. His boss, a rotund man, placed hands on hips, his anger a mix of affronted pride and genuine confusion. "It's not a complicated order. I don't see why this is a problem. It's just a birthday s- "

"We won't! Not again!" shouted the halfling, nearly apoplectic. He raised a shaking fist, and for a moment the stunned kitchen staff thought they were about to see the chef and owner set about a brawl. 

At the last instant, the woman caught her husband's arm.

"It's all right, Marvin. It's all right." She pulled herself forward, frail, bowing and nodding to the owner. "Please, sir. Forgive my husband. You've been…so generous. And we have nowhere else to go. We…we will do whatever the job requires."

She tottered to her step stool in a daze, pulling a tall glass towards her and rolling up her sleeves. The owner looked at her back for a moment, then at the halfling man, Marvin. Marvin stared at the ground, the fight visibly drained from him. The proprietor shook his head, turning a baleful gaze at the rest of the staff, who all very quickly pretended to be focused on their work. He turned on his heel and stormed to the front of the house.

The halfling woman slowly assembled the dessert. The waitstaff pretended not to notice her tears. 

And so the season went. After a while, the locals stopped ordering that item entirely.

No matter how sweet the ice cream sundae was, it somehow always tasted bitter.


	3. Legal in the Traditional Sense

The vials clattered as they were laid out on the counter.  "Gotta stock up again," the customer said, by way of explanation for the sheer quantity of elixirs she'd selected.  "You were gone for longer than usual.  Where'd you end up this time?"  
  
"Oh, here and there.  I travel to where the ingredients are, you know.  Strange herbs turn up in the most unusual of places," Halliack replied breezily, sorting through the potions and tallying a final price.  The dragonborn alchemist delicately placed each stoppered glass in a small crate before sliding a stack of paper across the tabletop.  "Sign please."  
  
"Sign?  This is new…" She picked up the first page, squinting at the many fine lines of delicate script.    
  
"Just a policy I decided to adopt after an encounter with a Documancer in a new town south of here."  Halliack noted the customer's nonplussed expression and continued, "I assure you, documancy is a respected field of growing popularity.  Why, I hear there's a Lord of Waterdeep assembling his very own Docunomicon.  It will be…extensive…one understands.  Perhaps even _exhaustive_ , if the rumor holds true.  I've only managed to acquire a few chapters of this impressive manuscript, at quite an expense I might add, but it's all been quite fascinating."  
  
The customer did not seem to share his enthusiasm, reading from the document before her, "'Customer verifies their home is not the site of a current _infestation_ …?' Infestation of what?"  
  
Halliack pursed his lips.  "You're right, I really should define that better.  Perhaps expand the clause to include pets…you don't own a gerbil, do you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Or a sweet bweezy?"  
  
"I'm not really a pet person."  
  
Halliack patted her hand in what he presumed was a comforting manner, "I'm sure you'll be fine then.  Just sign on the dotted line and we'll be all set."  
  
She sighed, picked up a quill, flipped to the end, and scrawled a looping signature on the final page.  Halliack smiled his most pleasant smile, rolled up the parchment, and deposited the neatly packed crate before her with the final receipt.  The alchemist waved cheerily as she left, hauling the clinking cargo out of his tower.    
  
"Hah!" he muttered to himself once he was alone.  "It really _does_ work _every_ time.  Make the contract long enough and they'll agree to anything."  He opened a cupboard and added the newly signed documents to a growing stack within.    
  
Halliack specialized in acquiring ingredients that were not, in the _traditional_ sense, legal.  As any alchemist worth their salts knew, some ingredients took a great deal of time to cultivate.  He patted the pile of paper with satisfaction.  These might take a little longer to yield fruit, but given a few years…he expected to acquire a very unique collection indeed.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that these alleged Docunomicon chapters are being ghost-written by Viari and sold on the side as "illicit copies" of Omin's "master-work-in-progress."


	4. Genesis

He was an old bard.  A wanderer.  His fingers were gnarled, too arthritic these days to play an instrument, though it was said that in his peak he was a power.  His voice though, his voice was still a wonder.  Songs that made even the hardest warriors weep and the primmest customers dance.  And the tales he told!  Old favorites made new, delighting children and grandparents alike.  The town's single inn and tavern was always happy to host him.  
  
Yet on this visit he was unusually quiet.  A nod when he entered, but not a word said.  Instead, he went to his usual spot by the fire.  And stayed there.  Patrons of the inn noticed him when they entered, yet by unspoken agreement, none approached.  The matron behind the bar worried that the old storyteller might drive customers away with his strange mood. Instead people lingered.    
  
It felt like a storm was coming.  The energy of the room was charged.  The night wore on.  Despite the crowded room, conversations were stilted.  Hushed.  They waited.  The candles burned low, went out, until all that remained were the glowing coals of the fire.  They watched.  They wondered.  
  
Then he spoke.  
  
"Even gods of death can die.  Tales from the Time of Troubles speak of Bhaal, brutal deity of murder, who was struck down by a mere mortal.    
  
Oh yes, we know how gods of death can die.  But have you ever seen one born?  
  
I have.  And I have lived to tell this tale, one of a fortunate few.    
  
Nemezir is dead.  An entire city, gone in an hour.  Consumed in the birth of this new being of destruction.  The sacrifice she required.    
  
Some deities of death walk.  We all know of Talona, who appears as a scarred and tattooed crone, hobbling about as she brings plague and ruin.  Others simply appear where they will. Myrkul was known to materialize from fog and shadow, scythe in hand.  There in an instant, only to fade away like mist.  
  
This new god rides.    
  
Not on a horse, but atop a carriage of black velvet that glows with unholy light from beneath.  It is adorned with skulls and the carvings of all manner of beasts.  The creature that pulls this engine of annihilation is something one could barely call a horse.  It is made of bronze and vine, with a slit throat, and eyes of glittering emerald.  I saw it burst out of the gates of this dying city, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.  The driver is an old crone clad in shadow.  When she opens her mouth, she does not speak in words, but emits a thunderous roar.   Inside this cart, otherworldly beings hide behind dark veils.  Their exact nature I do not know, but one is massive and covered in scales.  The other is surrounded by tendrils with many glowing red eyes.    
  
On the roof is a dread maiden who appears as an elf, caked in earth and dried blood, with raven black hair and a grim expression.  She seems ordinary enough, but in the wake of this vehicle sprout demons of bloodshed who call her 'Mother'. These dryads, furious and deadly, pursued me and the few survivors that escaped the city's destruction.  They drove us out of the forest and now stalk the lands this goddess of destruction reclaimed.    
  
For that is what she is here to do.  Our cities have grown too vast.  Our Lords and Ladies too sure in their power.  We have forgotten the woods and mountain, the tree and the stone.  We think that we have conquered those ancient powers.  She is here to remind us of the forces of the earth.  This dour goddess will take back what we have stolen.  
  
Nemezir has fallen, but it is only the first.  Already, I have heard of new groves appearing.  An entire forest of red larch sprouted overnight.  Not seedlings, but full grown trees.  The forests are marching on civilization.  They mean us naught but ill will.  
  
I call her a goddess of death, but I am sure to the forest she is a goddess of life.  
  
It simply depends on what side you're on.  
  
Some have told me I have gone mad.  That there never was a city of Nemezir.  That the land to the south has always been woodland, and the being I saw was merely one of the druids that legends speak of.  Yet I tell you that everything I have said today is true.  I saw many strange things that day, but none stranger than that cart.  
  
Should it roll into your town…run.  Destruction can only follow."  
  
There was silence.  Then, a tentative clap, and a smattering of applause followed.  A few coins were tossed his way.  It was not a tale up to the bard's usual standards, but many had grown up listening to the old man's stories and felt a certain sense of patronage.    
  
He just shook his head.  
  
"Remember that I warned you," he said, and without another word, left.  
  
The bar matron sighed and threw a new log on the fire, casting light on baffled patrons and their coins left untouched on the floor.    
  
"A shame," she said, "He used to have such a lovely voice."


End file.
